Paint Your Shadows on the Breath That We Share
by define-serenity
Summary: [Sebastian/Blaine] "Hmm," he hums, inhaling a lungful of smoke, holding it for a few seconds before slowly exhaling, his body sinking long into the mattress beneath them. He passes the joint to Blaine, who lies blissed out next to him, both of them staring up at the night sky, Blaine's iPod between their heads playing music he doesn't recognize.


written for Seblaine Week 2015, prompt: nyu!seblaine. part of that bicurious Sebastian 'verse i never got around to writing. title taken from _One Sweet Love_ by Sara Bareilles.

.

 _ **Paint Your Shadows on the Breath that We Share**_

.

.

"Hmm," he hums, inhaling a lungful of smoke, holding it for a few seconds before slowly exhaling, serenity tugging at the corners of his eyes, his body sinking long into the mattress beneath them.

He passes the joint to Blaine, who lies blissed out next to him, both of them staring up at the night sky, Blaine's iPod between their heads playing music he doesn't recognize.

It'd been Blaine's idea to come here, high above any adjoining rooftops, far from the prying eyes of friends and roommates or anyone else who might chose to judge them. His instructions had been to come in 'nothing too fanciful', so he'd shown up in an old pair of washed-out jeans and a plain white t-shirt, only to find Blaine sporting a similar outfit, wearing slacks instead of jeans.

Blaine had led him up to the roof, one of his favorite places in the world to relax, and once they'd pushed through the rusty door he understood why. He wasn't sure how much effort Blaine had put into tonight, but there were colored fairy lights outlining the floor, an old mattress in the center, a perfect oasis in an otherwise urban jungle.

"What in God's name is Tame Impala?" he asks as he turns on his side, catching the name of the band on the iPod screen, his tongue too thick for his mouth.

Blaine chuckles and takes another drag, his eyes closed. "It's a psychedelic rock project by one Kevin Parker," he answers, blinking long before turning his head, his hazel eyes swimming with colors he can't name. "This girl Sunshine from my tap class put me onto them."

He's half tempted to tease Blaine about the fact that he used the words 'my' and 'tap class' in the same sentence, but he gets distracted by Blaine's impressive biceps supporting his head, lost in the sluggish curl of his eyelashes, the rhythm of his involuntary blinking – Blaine's at his most beautiful when he lets his guard down, unencumbered by stress or school projects or the demands of everyday life, and somewhere deep down in a secret place, he wishes he was the only one who saw this side of him.

"Leave it up to you to have a playlist to get high to," he says, settling on his elbows, muttering the word _psychedelic_ under his breath. He half-expected something like Maroon 5 or even The Beatles, not some band name that sounded like it was made up in the backseat of someone's car.

Blaine smiles. "What is a playlist without a theme?"

"Hmm," he hums again, and loses most feeling in his lips. He scoots down and turns on his back, laying his head to rest on Blaine's stomach. "How'd you find this place?" he asks, head bobbing with the languid inhale-exhale of Blaine's lungs.

"Old habit," Blaine says. "It reminds me of home, when my dad took me and my brother camping."

Blaine breathes in deeply, reaching his fingers into his hair.

"Mom would make us food for the hike and dad would tell us historical anecdotes throughout the day he'd quiz us on later."

He closes his eyes, Blaine's fingers through his hair enough to put him to sleep should he allow it. Instead he pictures a small hobbit of a boy struggling to keep up with his older brother and father as they climb a steep hill, his curls sticking to his forehead, tiny feet kicking up dust that sings in the sunlight.

"At night we'd build a fire and eat s'mores, and Cooper would try–"

The story hitches somewhere at the back of Blaine's throat and he wonders if it's the high, if it's his lungs not getting enough air, or his speech constricting around a happy memory soured by time.

"He'd tell us really bad horror stories that still gave me nightmares," Blaine says, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "Sometimes we'd sit outside all night, with our dad's arms around our shoulders, just–" Blaine hesitates, and this time he can tell it's sentiment that gives him pause, "–gazing up at the stars."

He licks his lips. "Sounds nice."

Blaine draws in a breath, hand still stroking through his hair. "It was."

He feels privileged to this moment here with Blaine; he understands the need to live inside memories of happier times, the times of childhood when everything was simpler, smaller, and the magnitude of the big bad world didn't warrant serious consideration yet.

"What about you?" Blaine asks. "Your dad ever take you camping?"

He chuckles, but something upsetting settles in his stomach, similar to what had stopped Blaine speaking a few moments ago. "My dad's not the outdoorsy type," he says, a bitter bite to his words he hopes Blaine won't notice. "His idea of father-son bonding consisted of giving me money for the arcade while he snuck away with one of his girlfriends."

Blaine's hand stills in his hair and he wishes he hadn't said anything at all. He doesn't want to turn this night into one where they exchange sob stories.

"And your mom?"

Blaine's hand picks up the same lazy rhythm.

The tightness in his shoulders disappears.

He takes a deep breath, the memories painful to the touch. "I covered for my dad until I was old enough to–" He swallows hard, the guilt making him more lucid, the stench of his father's adultery all over him again. He doesn't deal with these memories well, he rarely shares them with anyone, but the weed has loosened his tongue and all but vaporized his shame.

"Whatever." He shrugs. "Doesn't really matter anymore."

"I'm sorry."

He's long since stopped accepting people's pity; his father made his choices and his mistakes, all he can try to do is not repeat them. He sits up and steals the joint from Blaine, taking a long hallucinant drag to chase away darker thoughts. "What would your dad say about this?" he asks, a sad attempt to steer their conversation in a different direction.

He feels Blaine sitting up behind him and his body makes an instinctual half turn, one of his arms reaching across Blaine's lap to hover over him.

"I stopped caring what my dad thinks when he tried to turn me straight the first time," Blaine says, taking a final drag from the joint before stubbing it out in a makeshift ashtray.

He clears his throat, blinking hard against the haze in his head, urged by the need to treat this statement with a little more care – why are they even talking about this shit with both of them so out of it. "I'm sorry," he manages, even though he'd rather say something that assured Blaine it's okay to cut people like that from his life.

"Don't be."

He searches Blaine's face for any apprehension, any blame he might unconsciously lay at his feet over bringing this up in the first place, but finds nothing but blown pupils, full lips, his own tingling at the memory of their mouths moving together. Blaine reaches a hand for his hair again, fingertips scraping almost painfully at his scalp. He closes his eyes and savors the feeling, letting Blaine direct which way his head tilts – his thoughts are swimming but in a good way, tethering on the right side of consciousness.

"You're so susceptible to this when you're high," Blaine says gleefully, and he can't quite decide what Blaine means; it's true they haven't ventured into a whole lot of TLC, but that comes with time, with getting to know a person – and he hasn't exactly shied away from anything else so far.

"I'm susceptible to a lot of things in the right company," he answers, reaching down for Blaine's crotch, and starts palming slow agonizing circles that are sure to get Blaine's attention.

Blaine hisses and falls back on both arms, his body shaking, head falling back. " _Sebastian_ ," he whispers.

And if at all possible Blaine looks even more beautiful, the line from his chin running to his throat down to the dips of his collarbone, every shift of muscle visible through his shirt tempting him to take a closer look. He drags his hand up under Blaine's shirt, his abdomen tense underneath his fingertips, Blaine's breath hitching at his touch alone.

He pulls Blaine's shirt higher, revealing a trail of soft hair running up to his navel, thinning out to the sides where his hipbones set off deep into his skin – instinct takes over and he leans in, planting a kiss over Blaine's belly button. Blaine smells of something fresh and fruity, like he somehow managed to bottle half of the produce section and sink it into his skin, his wonderfully smooth skin warm and vibrating–

"Come here," Blaine urges, and before he's had the chance to even catch Blaine's eyes their mouths crash together, the initial kiss hard and unforgiving, but Blaine slows them down again, pulls back a little so he can do that thing where he licks over his lips to pry his lips apart, successful every time. He inhales Blaine like he breathes in a drug, unafraid, the tips of their tongues brushing before he demands all of it, all of Blaine, his tongue and his lips, and his body.

Blaine's shirt bunches up between his fingers and a filthy moan escapes him, their make-outs so different than any of the ones he shared with girls, with Quinn, Blaine's mouth harder, more demanding, more overall willing. His body thrums to the beat of Blaine's now, their foray into a physical relationship measured and steady; a kiss, making out on the couch, that night not too long ago Blaine went down on him–

He thumbs at Blaine's jaw, bringing him to attention again. Blaine's eyes find his, dark with lust, his chest heaving deep.

"I wanna blow you," he says, panicking at the mere notion, but he wants Blaine at his mercy the way Blaine had him at his last week, begging, whimpering, shooting into his mouth. If Blaine's mouth could do that to him he wants to explore all the ways he could possibly do that to Blaine– Blaine's beautiful and kind, and surprisingly sexual behind the college schoolboy façade, and he wants more, more of the same, more of everything else he hasn't yet discovered.

Blaine grins a dopey smile. "Sure you don't wanna buy me dinner first?"

His eyes draw down to Blaine's lips, a desire to wipe that grin off his face needling at his skin–

"Okay," Blaine breathes, licking at his lips once he realizes how serious his suggestion was. " _Okay_ ," he whispers, and brings their mouths back together.

Blaine leans back on his hands while one of his reaches down for Blaine's crotch, palming over it at the same slow pace that informs their movements– his head swims in the heady scent of Blaine and the sound of their mouths moving together, the brush of French terry against soft skin as he slides a hand inside Blaine's slacks, gently caressing Blaine's soft cock. Blaine gasps and clasps a hand around the back of his neck, shuddering as he exhales into his mouth, the faint whiff of dry mint on his breath.

He lets Blaine take charge of their mouths as his fingers trail up and down Blaine's heated skin, his cock swelling beneath his careful touch, between his fingers, Blaine's legs opening and his knees rising subtly to aid his movements.

"Sebastian," Blaine breathes into his mouth, blindly grabbing for a small bag he deposited next to the mattress earlier.

"You came prepared." He licks his lips, offering up his hand so Blaine can squirt some lube onto his fingers. His mind reels at the thought of what Blaine might have had in store for them, though he's not about to waver and give up control, insofar he has any control at all; he's a layman under Blaine's freely offered tutelage, eager to learn if his curiosity lies deeper than a simple surface desire.

"Never know when your bicurious–"

 _Boyfriend_ , he thinks, but denies Blaine the word in favor of grabbing around his cock, starting an agonizing up-and-down motion with his hand.

Blaine's head falls back, eyes closing as his abs tighten, hips chancing an upward jerk. "–might decide to blow you."

He kisses Blaine's throat, drags his tongue over what's exposed of his collarbone, brushes his lips up, down again, chasing Blaine's subtle taste. "You're so susceptible to this when you're horny."

Blaine snorts and tips his head forward again, sinking down onto his elbows. Their lips brush and he coaxes another hiss from Blaine as his grip tightens around his cock, a kiss lost in the sparse space between them.

"Are you calling me easy?" Blaine asks, pupils blown, raising his hips off the mattress to push his sweats further down.

He halts his hand on the downstroke, squeezing around the base of Blaine's cock.

Blaine whimpers.

He grins. "Perish the thought."

Blaine shoots up and pulls him down into a kiss, arms wrapping around his neck like he owns his body, his tongue and his lips, and a voice at the back of his mind confides _yes, he does own you, has from the moment you met_. It's not a scary thought, he has no issue letting himself be owned, least of all in a sexual situation, as long as he gets to do some of the owning later on.

"Tell me what to do," he says softly, teasing his thumb over Blaine' slit.

Blaine then sinks into the mattress with a sigh, reaching fingers into his hair. "Do what you liked me doing to you."

A smile curls from his lips down to his stomach, but he's not sure he gave that any actual thought the night in question, rather preoccupied by Blaine's half-lidded gaze and his swollen lips, red where he'd tugged on them with his teeth. His cock swells at the memory of Blaine asking for permission to blow him, unbuttoning his jeans, sinking down into his lap to tease his lips around his cock, still soft without any other stimulation. He'd grown hard inside Blaine's mouth, all that heat and the quiet hum of Blaine's lips vibrating around him quickening his heartbeat. Quinn had gone to her knees for him a few times, but she'd required gentle suggestions where Blaine hadn't needed any; he knew exactly what he undid and how to draw him in.

He undoes his jeans and settles on one hip, palming over his own cock a few times to take the edge off. His lips skip down Blaine's chest, nipping and licking at his skin.

"Just, use your tongue," Blaine suggests, twisting his fingers in his hair, a firm grip that ignites heat in his spine. He licks a line from the base of Blaine's cock, tracing the thick vein on the underside, all the way up to his tip, where he lingers at the seam.

"Like that." Blaine moans.

He puckers his lips around the head of Blaine's cock, adding some saliva for an easier slide.

"Pull your lips–" –Blaine shudders– "–over your teeth when take me into your mouth."

He falls onto his stomach, hiking a leg up so he can tilt his hips against the mattress for friction, turned on beyond belief by Blaine's careful instruction, the hitch and lilt in his voice, the breathless gasps every time he hits a sweet spot.

"I'm high, so I'll be more sensitive, more–" –He draws his lips over his teeth and sinks down over Blaine's cock, his tongue flat and wet against hot skin, and Blaine groans filthily, fingers tightening painfully in his hair– " _Oh God_."

His hips bear down and skate along the mattress, his hard-on trapped in the heat of his own body and the friction he provides for himself. He never dared to think he could do this to Blaine in return, keep him at his mercy until he lapsed into incoherence, until he was a whimpering mess of arms and legs and cut-off sentences.

"Hand around the–"

His fingers wrap around the base of Blaine's cock before he needs to say it, jerking him off shallowly, his head bobbing up and down, lips wrapped tight around Blaine's swollen cock.

"Yes," Blaine sighs contently, "just like that."

Blaine's hips buck up in rhythm with his own hips' jerky response, and he's so much closer than Blaine seems to be, his cock twitching every few seconds, something in his gut drawing down about to blow.

And when it hits him it rolls in like a tidal wave, rolling down to his groin in a wave, a bigger wave, until his orgasm shoots through him, out of him, his lips releasing Blaine's cock with a wet pop as he cries out. His forehead falls to Blaine's thigh, snuggling back against Blaine's hand while the other soothingly stroking down his back. He lies catching his breath for what seems like forever, but Blaine doesn't speak, doesn't object, and doesn't point out how he's now woefully neglecting him. Maybe it's the weed, or the setting, or the magnetism of Blaine's personality, but he could stay like this forever, be with Blaine forever, forget about school and a cheating ex-girlfriend he still has to face, an amazing yet obnoxious-at-times roommate who drags him out to gay bars and introduces him to boys with curly hair and gorgeous honey-melted eyes. He'd be quite content to stay up here until the end of time.

Somehow, eventually, he finds the strength to rise on his arms and hover over Blaine on all fours.

"You okay?" Blaine asks softly, fingers at his collarbone, his eyes a molten gold around deep dark circles.

He smiles, "Yeah," and leans in for a kiss, two, three, before his lips chart a path down Blaine's neck, his shirt hiked so high he can lick a wet path down his chest again, his mouth soon sinking down over Blaine's cock again. Blaine writhes underneath him, and while his limbs are saturated with satisfaction and release Blaine's quiet moans inspire new excitement.

"Sebastian–" –Blaine's fingernails dig into his shoulder– "You don't have to– Oh God."

But what Blaine allows he won't deny himself, not with this scintillation coursing through his veins, not with this lust for Blaine's body sunk well below any apprehension he might've yet had. When Blaine comes, crying his name, spilling hot on his tongue, he swallows all of him, sucking around Blaine until he's spent, warm and salty on this tongue. He catches his breath mouthing at Blaine's groin, trailing kisses back up his chest, planting a small kiss on Blaine's lips as he bathes in his release.

He settles on his back next to Blaine, their shoulders touching, but they're silent as they stare up at the stars in the night sky, Blaine's breathing coming down. It's hard to imagine it's the same sky that once stretched above a young Blaine Anderson, safeguarded in his father's arms, or the same sky he stood beneath alone, waiting for a dad who wouldn't show up. They're not those boys anymore, yet somehow still boys all the same, searching for meaningful relationships, exploring their options, living the college life.

Blaine lights another joint and brings it to his lips, taking a long deep drag, eyes closing as his lungs expand around the initial burn; he exhales at half his normal speed, leaving behind a billowing cloud of smoke outside his mouth. The world slows down when he's with Blaine– his relationship with Quinn was like a firecracker, explosive with a lot of noise; he and Blaine are more like a candle with a slow-burning wick, still fiery and energetic, hot to the touch, but with the space and time to melt into something else, something transformed. He much prefers this steady burn to the fast chemical reaction, even though part of his broken heart still loves Quinn, still misses her laughter and her jokes, her dirty texts even.

But she's the one who screwed that up.

"Come here," Blaine whispers, coaxing him from his melancholy thoughts, and leans up on an elbow. He makes a grab for the joint but Blaine raises it out of his reach, rewarding his patience with a kiss, one that lingers in his lips once Blaine licks the length of them, his lips parting on instinct.

He watches as Blaine takes another drag, leaning in again.

Blaine exhales into his mouth slowly, smoke tickling the back of his throat, eyes falling shut as he breathes Blaine in. The burn soothes his lungs this time, lessened when Blaine licks into his mouth. It's all tongues for a while, hot and wet and sticky, Blaine everywhere he can taste; the kiss is lazy, slow, dancing along the edges of his body he can no longer distinguish from Blaine's.

"You're not freaked out by any of this, are you?" Blaine says, breath whisking along his lips, fingers curling into his hair again.

"Should I be?" he asks, because it might have been Blaine's suggestion but he agreed to this. He hasn't regretted his decision once, not since that day in Blaine's bedroom, since the night before, really, and he'd kissed Blaine in his drunken stupor. Maybe they're not boyfriends in the most traditional sense of the word, but they're each other's something.

Blaine smiles. "I guess not."

.

.

 **fin**

 _._


End file.
